


Could you crawl out of your perfect skin and climb into mine?

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, kastle appreciation week, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13006230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: It's just a hug, so why does it feel like it's so much more?





	Could you crawl out of your perfect skin and climb into mine?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my teeny tiny little contribution to Kastle Appreciation week.
> 
> Title is from Black Lab's _See the Sun_

_If I feel this feeling_  
_If I let myself go deep again_  
_Will you stay by my side?_  
_'Cause if I feel this feeling_  
_Things will never be the same again_

 

He's about to leave. He really is. He’s said his piece and she’s agreed to help. She has those damn potted roses that he totally didn't spend ages picking out for her, and he's pretty sure he's overstayed his welcome anyway. He doesn’t want to take advantage of her goodwill any more than he already has. After all, what he’s asking _is_ an imposition and she doesn't owe him a goddamn thing.

 

And all these reasons are solid. Pretty much any of them are enough to see him walking out the door and out of her life and spending his days waiting for those flowers to grace her window like a goddamn summoning spell. So yes, they're good and they're real and more than anything, they're _valid_. Except they're not. Not entirely anyway. He’s not going to be putting his hand on any Bibles and professing they are, because deep down - in that place where he keeps the things that are most precious to him and the most difficult to talk about - there’s a deep and fundamental truth which he hasn’t disclosed and isn’t going to.

 

The fact is that there's something about being in her space, in her _home_ , that gives this entire encounter a different quality, something both heavier and lighter than it should be. On some level it thrills him but on a more significant foundational one it scares the shit out of him because he realises what it means; she trusts him enough to bring him willingly into a place that is meant to be sanctuary for her and her alone; a place where she can shut out the world and be safe. And now he's here and he's not sure exactly what that says about either of them.

 

No, he’d never take advantage. He’d never make her regret it. But still, just standing in these particular four walls makes it hard to breathe, harder to think and it leaves a kind of low hum in his belly - an anticipation even if he can't really say what for.

 

So he's packing his things, zipping the backpack closed and trying so hard to ignore the glassiness in her eyes, the little catch in her voice. Trying _so_ hard but also failing hopelessly because he knows he caused both. He knows his presence has turned her world inside out and upside down, that in many ways he’s shaken her to the core and he had no right to do that.

 

What she doesn't know is it's done the same for him. And, not for the first time, he wonders at the fact that somehow Karen Page has the power to do this to him; that it's been less than 20 minutes of being near her, after the past six months of nothing but rage and grief, and she's already climbing inside him and tearing him apart, shredding him from the inside like he's nothing. And worse, she's making him remember. Making him remember all those moments they had before now - how they were small but somehow added up to something much bigger than the sum of their parts. He thinks of her little smile when she'd found something for him about his family, her steadfastness and fearlessness at his side in court and then later the gunfire, the feel of her hair in his hands, the aching remorse when he left her alone in the woods so he could kill a man and slake his bloodlust.

 

He thought he’d moved past all that.

 

He was a fool.

 

So he pulls the backpack onto his shoulder, thanks her for the beer, and tries not to focus too hard on her as he takes a step towards the door. It's not a far walk - a few steps at most - and he tells himself that once he's outside all that guilt will disappear, all that shame too. His body will obey him and he’ll be able to breathe again.

 

But suddenly there she is and she's blocking his way and before he can do anything - before he can really say anything other than a surprised “hey” that sounds more like a rumble than an actual word - her arms are around him and she's pulling him close and burying her face in his shoulder.

 

He doesn't hesitate. Not for a second. It's not even something he really considers; it's not a decision. Rather it’s something instinctual and undeniable and then he doesn't stop to think about it because all he can focus on is dragging her into him, clasping her as tight as he dares and, just for a moment, not worrying about what lies on the other side of this.

 

_(You stay. Please.)_

 

And she does. They _do_.

 

He’s not sure how long he holds her and she holds him back. There’s no way to measure the passing of time because it doesn't feel like there's anything in the world but the two of them and the sound of his heartbeat drumming hard and fast in his chest. Later he'll think it was somewhere between seconds and centuries and even that doesn't seem like it could encompass all the possibilities it needs to.

 

Still, somewhere in the haze of her, he registers that she's soft and very warm, that her body slots delightfully against his and, when he turns his face into her hair, his forehead fits perfectly into the hollow of her neck.

 

He wonders if she feels it too.

 

And then he’s breathing her in - big gulping breaths that only seconds ago seemed an impossible luxury. She smells of vanilla and jasmine, a hint of citrus, and he thinks that maybe if he was a different man and this was a different time, he could stay here forever, drown in her scent, and thank her for the pleasure if letting him die such a worthy death.

 

But it’s not a different time and he's not a different man and all he can do - all he _wants_ to do - is let the moment stretch, draw it out, feel a shiver course through both of them as she shifts against him and tugs him closer, and accept fully and completely that despite who he is and what he does, he does not have the willpower or the fortitude to be the one to end this.

 

So he doesn't. He can’t. Frank Castle simply isn't that man.

 

Instead he lets her wrap him up in her arms, cocoon him almost, and while he's not surprised by her strength, he is surprised by the desperate way she clings to him; by the way she seems to want to climb inside him and hide them both from everything the world could throw at them.

 

And then they're swaying and he tells himself he’s following her lead, except he’s sure he's the one that started it, that he's the one that moved them both. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all who did and who didn't because they’re doing it perfectly in time with each other and he doesn’t ever want to stop.

 

_(Hold on. Use two hands. And never let go)_

 

And for a moment, just a single perfect moment, she makes him feel like everything could be okay. That maybe this Micro character isn't a threat, that maybe some day he can atone for Maria and his children and move on, and that when he does - _if_ he does - there might be someone waiting for him to do that.

 

It's an impossible fantasy, a dream that doesn’t serve any purpose other than to torture him. And yet… and yet he holds onto it, he lets himself believe it.

 

He breathes her in again, feels the way her body presses against his - the places where she's soft, the others where she isn’t. The hidden steel that in many ways feels more true to her than the gentleness.

 

She's here and he's here and she’s warm and strong and she’s holding him just as tight as he's holding her.

 

And then suddenly she's not.

 

_She’s not._

 

She's pulling away like he's burned her and for a second, he wonders if he has.

 

But he couldn't have because as she slips out of his grip all he feels is cold, the little flame-like warmth of her body replaced by something icy and empty, something horribly familiar and yet somehow made worse by the loss of her.

 

He makes a sound in the back of his throat and his hands twitch at his sides and he can’t find it in himself to look at her.

 

She's not looking at him either. In fact she's looking anywhere _but_ him, hand on her face like she forgot herself, like she's slipped up and done something she shouldn't. And he wants to say so many things. He wants to tell her it's okay, there's nothing to worry about, that it's the first time someone's touched him like that in almost two years and _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he didn't know how much he needed it until it happened. He didn't know how much he'd missed just being held and needed and loved by someone sweet and kind. That he slipped too and maybe - _maybe_ \- that means it wasn't a slip at all.

 

But before he can say anything she's speaking.

 

“It's just really good to see you.”

 

Her voice still has that catch in it, that small sob hiding in the back of her throat, and she’s having trouble meeting his eyes. And for about the hundredth time since he met her he tries to imagine what exactly he is to Karen Page; what he was once and what he is now.

 

What he could become.

 

And he realises he's staring and, despite her embarrassment, she's found her confidence again and she’s waiting. She expects something of him.

 

As always she's relentless when it comes to him.

 

“It's good to see you too,” he says and he isn't surprised that his voice is strained, that it feels thick and clumsy in the back of his throat.

 

She nods, and her hand is still on her face and briefly, he considers leaning in and kissing her cheek, letting her know that he feels the same way even if he doesn't truly know what that means. But the moment passes and suddenly he's acutely aware again that he's in her space, her home, and that he’s suffocating; that he doesn't belong and that on some level this is far more intimate than it should be.

 

And that maybe him and Karen Page always were.

 

He has to go. He _has_ to. It isn't right to stay any longer. It isn't right to put this on her and it isn't fair to do this to himself.

 

He gives her one last look - her blonde hair, her blue eyes, the shimmery pink lip gloss that smells of strawberries - and he tries to ignore the shaking deep in his belly as forces himself to head to the door, his legs like blocks of stone.

 

“Be careful,” he says.

 

She doesn't answer and there's a moment that he considers looking back to make sure she heard.

 

It's also the moment that he knows he won't leave if he does.

 

So he lets himself out, goes down the stairs and outside into the weak November sunlight. The sky is clear but the shadows are deep and dark and chill in the air promises an icy winter to look forward to.

 

And he guesses that's just as well.

 

He takes a few deep breaths, lets the cold burn his lungs. He can still feel the imprint of her body on his, still smell her hair and he swears if he concentrates hard enough he can still hear the beat of her heart against his.

 

He glances back at her window, catches a glimpse of her shadow against the curtain, and hopes it won't be too long before the roses are out and he can see her again. Talk to her. Just spend another fucking second in her goddamn presence.

 

He shakes his head, tells himself he’s an asshole and he needs to focus on finding this Micro character. He needs to stop acting like a fool whenever Karen Page is around. Because he _knows_ \- he _understands_ \- what she does to him. He knows that peace that she brings him can make a man lose himself. Lose himself with no hope of ever finding a way back and he can't let that happen.

 

He _can't_.

 

He _won’t_.

 

But then he thinks of the look in her eyes and the catch in her voice, and he knows that all the determination in the world doesn't mean a goddamn thing when it comes to him and Karen Page.

 

Because she doesn't let it.

 

He doesn't either.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
